Fade to Black - Proof

by Jeffrey Wilson

  Fade to

  Black

  By

  Jeffrey Wilson

  JournalStone

  San Francisco

  Copyright © 2013 by Jeffrey Wilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  JournalStone

  www.journalstone.com

  www.journal-store.com

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-936564-85-9 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-936564-92-7 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935629

  Printed in the United States of America

  JournalStone rev. date: June 14, 2013

  Cover Design: Denise Daniel

  Cover Art: M. Wayne Miller

  Edited by: Elizabeth Reuter

  Dedication

  For Wendy, Connor, Jack and Emma

  As Always

  Acknowledgements

  When you first start to write, you have no idea how much work other people will have to put into your work for you to succeed. These last few years have shown me that more than anything. Chris Payne and his staff at JournalStone Publishing are an amazing group of professionals who are totally committed to their side of the craft. Chris is more than a publisher and editor—he is a true friend that Wendy and I will always cherish.

  Thanks to the team at JournalStone for again taking my roughly edited words and polishing my story into a novel. Special thanks to Elizabeth Reuter for the incredible patience and perseverance it takes to edit my work and to M. Wayne Miller for capturing my words as art.

  For this book especially, I want to thank all of the men and women of our armed forces and the families who wait patiently at home. Thank you for your service and sacrifice. I pray for you all a safe return.

  Endorsements

  "A brilliant combination of war novel and supernatural thriller. This book could only have been written by an author who knows firsthand the blood, sweat, dust, and terror of combat." - Tom Young, author of The Mullah's Storm, Silent Enemy, and The Renegades

  "Wilson just keeps getting better and better. Fade to Black is a death-limbo drama that plays masterfully with melancholy notes of heartbreak backed by the roaring horrors of modern warfare. In the last fifty pages, you'll bite off every fingernail waiting to see the final outcome!" - Benjamin Kane Ethridge, Bram Stoker Award winning author of Black & Orange and Nightmare Ballad.

  "Wilson weaves terror and tenderness into this harrowing, supernatural tale of one man's perfect life turned upside-down by the horrors and sacrifices of military combat." - Brian Andrews — Author of The Calypso Directive, 2012 USA BEST BOOK Awards Finalist

  Chapter

  1

  Casey didn’t hear the bullet until it whistled through what was left of the wall and chunks of rock rained down on his helmet. He unconsciously pulled his head down and raised his shoulders as if that would keep the high‐velocity round from the enemy AK-47 from spattering his brains all over the ground. Casey’s heart pounded in his chest, but he embraced the feeling of terror and let the power of it energize him. Over the last few weeks the jacked up feeling had become like a drug to Casey and his friends. He had learned quickly to embrace and channel it into energy and sharpness—especially in the last few hours. Casey took a few slow breaths to dampen his tremors, but felt the fear clear his mind and sharpen his focus.

  Good.

  He knew the younger boys hunkered down beside him needed their sergeant—an old man at twenty-six—to stay iced.

  Casey leaned his regulation Kevlar helmet back against the sandy wall as more chunks of brown cement broke loose and joined the dust and sweat in the collar of his body armor. He barely noticed. His mind focused instead on the frequent sharp pops of rifle fire from the dusty street on the other side of their fragile barrier.

  We’re in the goddamn O.K. Corral.

  He squeezed his eyes shut to clear away the sweat that burned behind his Marine Corps issued Wiley-X ballistic sunglasses. For all their expensive, high-tech gear, they were sure as shit taking a pounding from the robed, and mostly barefoot, men shooting at them from the blown out doorways and rooftops on the other side of the wall.

  The fine, blowing dust burned his throat, and he continually spit to clear the grit from his mouth and teeth. Casey gripped his rifle firmly in his gloved right hand as he listened to more pops of small arms fire around him. A whistle of rounds passed over the short wall, and he turned and looked at the men beside him, all pressed awkwardly against the sand and stone barricade that kept them from view. Some were shaking, but all were ready. They were Marines.

  Casey knew they were not the same men who had stormed into the Jolan neighborhood of Fallujah thirty-six hours ago. The grab-assing teenagers were now blooded Marines. They were more than warriors—they were his other family.

  He ducked as another high-velocity round exploded the top of the wall just inches from his head.

  Fuck.

  The insurgents on the other side of the makeshift barrier were holding true to their vow to fight to the last breath of the last man. The fighting had been bloody and continuous, and he and his men were tired. Maybe too tired. The ambush had separated the six of them from the rest of the platoon, and one of his boys, Kindrich, from somewhere in Tennessee, lay in the street on the other side of the wall. He was badly hit, probably dead. Casey had seen him take a round in the head, and he had grabbed for him before machine gun fire had forced him over the wall screaming to his men.

  “Take cover! Take cover!”

  Now they were pinned down, enemy fire eating away at the concrete above their heads, sending more sand and dust down on them. This was the real shit, and Casey shifted his limited options through his mind. He knew the only real plan available. Time to move out.

  Casey forced the flashing images of little baby Claire from his mind. He missed her more than he could ever have imagined, and for the first time in his career in the Corps, he considered that he might not see her or Pam again. But right now he had work to do, and his best chance of getting home to them was to push their images from his mind and concentrate on the job.

  He looked at his men and pointed with one finger to himself and two other Marines—Simmons from Albany and McIver from Northern Virginia. He then made a walking stick figure gesture and pointed to the end of the wall, fifteen feet away. He pointed the same two fingers to his own eyes. In silence he told his men, the three of us will move to the end of the wall and take a look. Then he swept his hand over the other two and raised a closed fist. You guys stay here.

  Casey and his two young colleagues crawled on their bellies, tight against the wall, rifles cradled in their arms, as they had trained to do a thousand times. They reached the end of the wall in seconds and Casey raised a closed fist. The three stopped and readied their rifles. Then he waved his hand and looked over his shoulder to get the attention of his other two men. Once sure he had their eyes, he made another signal.

  Covering fire.

  The boys behind him rose up simultaneously, each on one knee, and swung
their rifles over the wall, firing blindly into the street. As they did, Casey peered around the corner, dropping his helmet in the dirt, and looked out into the kill zone.

  Holy shit!

  Muzzle flashes lit up from almost every window he could see on the right side of the dirty road, and several from the rooftop. A piercing scream from behind him ran up his spine like someone had thrown a toaster in his tub, and he pulled his head back, hollering as he turned.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  Behind him one of his waiting two men slumped on his side against the wall, motionless. Dark blood poured out from his head and face onto the dirt. Bennet from San Antonio. Fancied himself a guitar player and sucked at basketball.

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  The other Marine hunched over his buddy and packed a field dressing onto his face. Then he looked up and shook his head.

  Son of a bitch!

  Casey’s mind reeled. The rest of their platoon had taken cover around the left side of the block and should have been working their way around to the far left corner. Casey decided they would have to make it from their wall to the far right corner. Then they would try and make contact with the rest of the platoon to converge from two corners, attacking the right side positions.

  They sure as shit couldn’t stay where they were.

  Kill the enemy.

  He looked again at Bennet’s crumpled body and the black blood pool that grew rapidly in the sand, encircling his head like a strange cloud.

  Especially now.

  Casey hand gestured for his remaining men to join them at the corner of the wall. They would make a dash across the intersection, down the right cross street. He had seen no shots from the left, so hopefully they would not be in a cross fire. As they moved across the intersection they should progressively lose a line of fire from the farther positions as the angles changed. They had no other choice. No rescue party was coming—the big, armored LAVs weren’t close enough to get to them in time, and he couldn’t wait for air support from the Cobra helicopter gunships that orbited just outside the city. The enemy had a bead on them and soon the rocket‐propelled grenades would come, and their flimsy wall would be gone.

  Once his men crunched in beside him, they huddled together, helmets touching like a football team, and Casey whispered out his plan. They would sprint one at a time, under covering fire, and then each would try to set up a new covering fire position as they arrived at the corner. As he finished an explosion from behind drove them down onto their faces. When Casey looked again a huge hole gaped in the wall at their previous position and Bennet’s body had disappeared beneath a heap of rubble.

  Time to go.

  Casey looked at his young men. Simmons shook badly.

  “You with me, Simmons?”

  The boy looked up at him. His lip quivered, but he nodded. Casey pulled the young man’s helmet against his own, his hand firm on the back of his friend’s sweaty neck, and looked into his wet eyes. “We’re gonna be ok, Simmons. Just stay with me and stay tough. Hoorah, Marine?”

  The boy squeezed his eyes tight and leaned into his sergeant, then opened them and set his jaw.

  “I’m good, Sar’n,” he said, then nodded his head and added “Hoorah!”

  Casey spun a finger over his head twice and then pointed his hand to the corner that was their objective.

  Move out.

  Casey leapt to his feet, fired his rifle from a raised and aimed position at the nearest window, and kicked off his sprint. Immediately the air around him came alive with whistling rounds and bright tracers. As his second boot hit the sand, a tremendous impact in the center of his chest knocked him backwards off his feet. His helmeted head smacked the corner of the wall hard enough to set off white explosions of light in his eyes. Then he thumped hard on his back in the dirt.

  Dazed and deaf to the gunfire around him, Casey lifted his head and looked down in horror at the center of his chest, where a charred hole smoked eerily in the brown canvas of his body armor. He probed the hole with a shaking left index finger and felt a hot piece of metal burn his fingertip. The round had not penetrated! Hands grabbed at him from behind the wall, and dirt kicked up in his face as the enemy adjusted fire. With a burst of strength from some unknown source he pushed away the hands clawing at his load-bearing vest. He pushed himself up to a squat, intent on restarting his sprint. When he made it to a low crouch he felt a violent, burning pain explode low in his throat and again he was driven backwards into the dirt.

  Casey could hear nothing, but felt hands again on his vest and arms. He was dragged roughly back behind the wall, his eyes staring up, terrified, at a hazy blue sky. He became aware that the rough hands on his throat were his own, and that they were hot and wet. His view of the sky was suddenly blocked by dark shapes that slowly took on the images of his friends’ faces. What were their names?

  “Sergeant Stillman! Sergeant Stillman!”

  “Casey—dude, can you hear me?”

  The voices were like an old recording playing way too slow in another room. He tried to speak, but instead coughed and felt warm stickiness flow down both his cheeks. Then the faces were gone for a moment and a tremendously large shadow blocked out the low sun. A helicopter? The world was getting dark and he closed his eyes. He saw his wife’s face, smiling at him, and Claire, little feet kicking as she smiled up from her crib at Daddy.

  My girls. I have to get to my girls.

  He should be going home. Where was the dusty tornado to bring him home? He didn’t know what that thought meant, but it somehow made sense to him.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter

  2

  He sat up screaming, his hands clutching his throat and his body drenched in sweat.

  “Help me! Oh, God, I’m shot! Oh! Oh, fuck!”

  A light clicked on and soft, warm hands grabbed his shoulders. He pushed backwards with his feet reflexively at the strange but gentle touch, and then the soft ground disappeared from beneath him and he felt himself fall. He landed with a sharp pain on his left hip and then pitched backwards, the back of his head striking hard on the corner of a wooden box. Stars again. Then he lay there gasping and confused.

  “Jack? Omigod! Jack, baby, what is it?” A beautiful angel, ringed from behind by light, peered down at him from—a bed?

  No, not an angel, though just as beautiful.

  “Pam?” he croaked.

  “Baby, it’s me. What is it? What’s wrong?” His angel slid off their bed onto the floor beside him, her legs across his, her hands cupping his face. Her brown eyes had tears in them, her face full of fear and concern. “Jack, what is it? What happened?” Her soft fingers went through his thick, black hair. At the back of his head they brought a burst of pain. He watched her pull her hand away and she looked at two fingers, wet with blood.

  “Jack! Holy shit, baby you’re bleeding! Are you all right? Honey, what is it?” She looked pleadingly into his eyes.

  Pam…right? Who the fuck was Jack? Wait—just wait a goddamn minute.

  Jack pushed himself up on unsteady arms. He swallowed the burning bile down hard.

  I just need a minute.

  He instinctively wrapped his arms around his crying wife.

  Right?

  He held her tightly and the images of the wall in Fallujah faded away, but slowly. He rocked his wife in his arms and his eyes swept the now more familiar room. His bedroom. Their bedroom.

  A nightmare?

  But the most vicious, realistic nightmare he had ever had. The feel of sand and the smell of dust and gunpowder still clung to him. Jack’s breath stuck for a moment in his throat when he saw a darkening sky. But the hazy dusk faded rapidly away, replaced by a swirled stucco ceiling and a slowly turning ceiling fan. In the distance he thought he heard the fading sounds of a helicopter and gunfire; then they were gone. He breathed again.

  “It’s ok, baby. I’m all right.” He rocked his wife. “I’m ok, Pam, just an unbelievably horr
ible nightmare.”

  I’m home. I’m home with my girls.

  “Baby, your head.” Pam held up two fingers, still wet with fresh blood—his blood, but at least not from a seven-six-two round tearing out his throat. Jack dragged fingertips across his perfectly intact throat and then felt the back of his head. A small gash bled lightly under his fingers. He steadied himself against the box on the floor, which turned out to be a nightstand when he looked at it.

  “I’m ok, honey. Just hit my head on the nightstand. My God, what a horrible dream.”

  Pam looked at him tentatively and touched his face. Her eyes softened, and she took a deep breath.

  Jack closed his eyes tightly and forced the lingering images from his mind as his breathing slowed. His body ached, and he felt a chill as the last of the sweat dried on his skin. Then he slowly pulled himself to his feet and helped Pam up off the floor. Far away he heard a soft sobbing voice.

  “Mama!”

  The sound of his baby girl’s voice filled Jack with warmth, and a calm flooded over him. He was ok. He was home.

  Pam wiped the tears from her eyes. “We woke Claire,” she said, and then, “I’ll go.” She kissed Jack on the cheek. “Get some ice from the kitchen for your head. I’ll meet you there.”

  Jack headed down the weirdly unfamiliar stairs, but as he reached the bottom, things started to feel more recognizable. He reached his hand out and touched a large, framed picture—the one of Pam with her head on his shoulder and Claire in her arms. The picture comforted him, but at the same time its image of him, his thick dark hair a bit longer than now, felt out of place. Jack shook his head, the motion causing a slight wave of recurrent nausea, and entered the kitchen.